


Sing Your Praises Remix (Worst Singer In The League)

by itsacoup



Series: Secret Chord (Hallelujah) [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Praise Kink, Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-01 22:16:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4036522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsacoup/pseuds/itsacoup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“The church towers,” Sidney repeats patiently. “On the square just outside, the Tyn Church, with the two big towers."</i>
  <br/>
  <i>There’s a long pause, Geno blinking slowly up at the ceiling, before Geno hesitantly offers, “no?”</i>
  <br/>
  <i>“If you look at them, the one on the right is a bit bigger,” Sid says, tracing the tips of his fingers up Geno’s chest and along his collarbone. “They say they’re a married couple, that the bigger tower protects the smaller one. Can I--can you let me be the big tower, for once? I want to take care of you, Geno, will you let me?”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sing Your Praises Remix (Worst Singer In The League)

**Author's Note:**

> Because my brain is an evil, cruel place, I saw all of the horrible heart-breaking pictures of Sid and Geno post worlds and thought, _what if Sid wanted to comfort Geno?_ And now we're here.
> 
> The church referenced is [ Our Lady Before Tyn](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/59/T%C3%BDnsk%C3%BD_chr%C3%A1m_z_Orloje.JPG) on Old Town Square in Prague. This image is in the proper orientation about the phenomena described.

It’s a bright, beautiful morning in Prague on the day after the final game of Worlds, and Sidney is checking his phone for approximately the millionth time over the past hour. His text of _hey, where you at?_ to Geno is still unanswered, so he takes a deep breath, screws up his courage, and digs through his contact list for a number titled _Fucking Ovechkin_.

It takes him a good five minutes to balance his desire for information gathering with his fear of Ovie’s nose for gossip, and eventually he sends, _have something for Geno--what hotel and room number?_  Predictably, Ovie responds almost immediately, but also predictably, it’s irritating: _Geno? Don’t know anyone named Geno._ Sid scowls and pokes out _EVGENI MALKIN_ with great prejudice. The reply is a nonsensical string of emoji--sighing face, gift box, equals sign, eggplant, diamond ring, palm tree--and then _Grand Hotel Praha, 205._ Sidney replies _thanks_ because he was raised right, and the answer is eggplant, question mark, pencil, question mark, laughing face. Fucking Ovechkin.

Google Maps tells Sidney that Grand Hotel Praha is on Old Town Square itself, a brisk five minutes walk from the side street cafe where he’s been enjoying a coffee and the fresh air. He throws back the dregs of his long-cold coffee and sidles out of his chair and down the street. When he emerges into the square, all the tourists are cramming into the corner by the Astronomical Clock in anticipation of the hour striking. Sidney hurries past them--most of them are pretty focused on the clock, but you never know--and into the hotel.

The reception is small, and there’s an elevator squatting obviously to the side, so Sidney pokes the call button and promises himself an extra half mile next time he runs to assuage the guilt of laziness. Room 205 isn’t difficult to find, and he knocks, shifting impatiently from foot to foot. There’s no response, so he knocks again, leaning close to the door and saying, “Geno, come on, it’s me, please open up.”

After a short pause the door clicks and opens a scant few inches, and Sidney only takes a moment to check that it’s Geno peering out the gap before putting his shoulder into the door and shoving in, closing the door with his foot behind him. “Hi,” Sidney says, and Geno aims a tight smile in his general direction before turning back into the room and sprawling face-down across the rumpled bed. Sidney toes his shoes off and pads over to the foot of the bed and goes to his knees, straddling one of Geno’s legs before lying half on top of him.

“Hi,” Sidney repeats, directly into Geno’s ear, and Geno heaves a huge sigh before reluctantly grumbling, “Hi, Sid.”

“I missed you,” Sidney quietly admits into the soft skin behind Geno’s ear, suddenly feeling a little unsure about his welcome. Geno turns his head, ducks forward enough to press a quick kiss to Sidney’s lips. “Miss you too,” he whispers, and it’s broken but honest as the flutter of eyelashes across the tops of his cheeks.

“So proud of you,” Geno says, and his voice is cracked around the edges, bleeding sadness and disappointment. “My good boy.” Sid sucks in a breath, feeling a deep stab in his chest because-- _that’s_ what Geno thinks he’s here for?

“Shut up,” Sidney says, fierce and low, and Geno freezes. “This isn’t about me, you asshole.” He’s struggling to come up with the right words, a burning lump stopping up his throat as Geno indignantly says, “ _I’m_ asshole?”

“Don’t try and distract me,” Sidney says. “I’m making a point here.”

“Oh, well, Sid making point, it’s okay to be mean,” Geno says, and he’s not bothering to hide the hurt as he turns his back to Sidney.

“I’m sorry, that didn’t--come here, I’ll stop, I’m sorry,” Sidney apologizes, and Geno reluctantly flips onto his back and lets Sidney curl up next to him, throw a leg and an arm over him and tuck his head just under Geno’s jaw. They lay like that for a long while, Sidney feeling the tension slowly leak out of Geno’s limbs, until Sidney is struck with inspiration.

“Did they tell you about the church towers?” he asks, and Geno turns his head, trying to focus on Sidney. “Что?” Geno says, and then, “What?”

“The church towers,” Sidney repeats patiently. “On the square just outside, the Tyn Church, with the two big towers.”

There’s a long pause, Geno blinking slowly up at the ceiling, before Geno hesitantly offers, “no?”

“If you look at them, the one on the right is a bit bigger,” Sid says, tracing the tips of his fingers up Geno’s chest and along his collarbone. “They say they’re a married couple, that the bigger tower protects the smaller one. Can I--can you let me be the big tower, for once? I want to take care of you, Geno, will you let me?”

“Think I can’t be big tower?” Geno says, expression growing stormy again, and Sidney stills his hand on Geno’s chest over Geno’s heart.

“No,” Sidney says forcefully, pushing his hand against Geno’s chest just above his heart. “It’s not like that. I _want_ to, Geno. You can but you shouldn’t have to, I’m here for you and I want to.” Sidney grits his teeth, struggling to find better words than _I want_ but failing.

“If that what Sid want,” Geno says, doubtful and wary, and Sidney rolls fully on top of him to nuzzle along his neck to his jaw and kiss him, slow and comforting.

“Please, I really do, please let me,” Sidney pulls away to say, because he’s not above begging, and Geno sighs heavily and says, “okay, whatever you say.”

“Okay,” Sidney says, and he sits up to pull Geno’s shirt off. His chest is thin, too thin, and Sidney kisses his sternum, licks across a nipple so Geno twitches and squeaks. Geno swats at Sidney half-heartedly, and Sidney catches his hand. Sidney smoothes his own fingers over the back of Geno’s hand, over the hills and valleys formed by the tendons and veins, and flips it over to kiss at the center of his palm, the lifting calluses below the middle and ring fingers, the wide press of each fingertip. “I love your hands,” Sidney admits lowly, gently curling Geno’s fingers until just his pointer finger is extended and then sucking it into his mouth. Geno gasps, a quiet little sound that falls into the silence of the room, and Sidney pulls off, dragging his tongue wide and firm against the bottom of Geno’s finger.

“You--your hands, you score so well with them,” Sidney stutters out, and he wants to hide his face in the bed, run from the uncomfortable prickles that are crawling down his spine and making him twist, but he needs to do this for Geno, so he pushes out the next sentence, staring at Geno’s hip. “Ten points in nine games,” he soldiers on, because if nothing else, he knows how to compliment Geno’s hockey. “Five beautiful goals. You played so well, G, you looked so good out there.”

“Not as good as Sid,” Geno says, and Sidney nearly breaks his neck as he jerks to look up at Geno. Geno’s smiling, one of the crooked ones, and his eyes are soft as he looks at Sidney.

Sidney bites back his instinctive response-- _shut up, this is about you_ \--and says, careful and soft, “thank you. You’re always taking care of me, even when you’re the one that deserves to be taken care of.” He squints pointedly at Geno, and Geno seems to get the message, blowing a big sigh out and letting his head drop back onto the pillow.

Satisfied, Sidney slides his hand to the waistband of Geno’s sweats and boxers, pulls them down Geno’s legs and off. There’s bright blue kinesio tape down the outside of Geno’s right calf, and Sidney lets his fingers wander lightly down the path they trace. “You work so hard for Russia,” Sidney says, and Geno makes a low noise of hurt. Sidney slides up and cradles his hands around Geno’s face, creased with frustration and sadness, and breathes, “even though it hurts, you give everything you have and more.” Geno squeezes his eyes shut, and raggedly says, “Sid, I don’t--I’m not good--”

“You are,” Sidney interrupts, kissing Geno fiercely, trying to consume him with all of the admiration that Sidney has for him. “You are good, your hockey is good but so are you.”

Geno settles, his breathing slowing though his expression remains a little stormy, and Sidney takes the opportunity to sit up and strip, flopping down onto the bed next to Geno to twist out of his jeans. Geno turns his head to watch--he enjoys Sidney suffering through his reluctant relationship with pants, especially jeans--but is still and quiet otherwise.

The lube is sitting boldly on the nightstand and Sidney grabs it, slicking up his hand and tossing the bottle aside. Sidney settles himself between Geno's legs, fisting Geno's soft dick just right, smooth and slow, until it firms up, growing hot and heavy in his hand. He's probably a little too focused on his task--he loves watching Geno's cock grow under his attention--so it's a surprise when Geno raspily clears his throat.

"Yeah?" Sidney says, looking up and letting his hand still. "Should I--keep talking?"

"If you want," Geno says, but the way he doesn’t look at Sidney as he says it suggests it’s a bullshit line. "But actually want... fuck me?"

Sidney stills; a fucked-out Geno is a complacent and cuddly beast, as he discovered the only other time Geno had asked for it, and Sidney yearns for the closeness. Sidney loves Team Canada and playing with them but--well. He's a creature of habit, and there's few habits ingrained in his life, both hockey and otherwise, like Geno.

"Of course," Sidney says, and Geno relaxes, tension that Sidney hadn't even noticed slipping away. Sidney sits back on his heels and evaluates his options. The intimacy of missionary sounds nice, but it's also too tempting to kiss Geno. Doggy is right out, and anything standing is entirely too athletic this soon after the tournament, which leaves only one option.

Sidney knee-walks out from between Geno's legs and gently places his non-sticky hand on Geno's flank. "C'mon, can you roll onto your side?" Geno grumbles wordlessly but pushes off with his elbow, curling his legs so he's balanced on his side with his back to Sidney. The bottle of lube, halfway across the bed, catches the corner of Sidney's eye, so he leans over Geno, smearing lube through the sheets as he balances himself.

Sidney slides back and curves up against the broad stretch of Geno's back. With their hips snugged together, Sidney's face is firmly planted in Geno's upper back; if he stretches, he can just barely kiss at the nape of Geno's neck. Geno's skin is unexpectedly cool against Sidney, and Sidney takes a moment to just--breathe, wrap his arms around Geno's chest and push their bodies together.

Sidney's face is buried in Geno's back, until all he can smell is Geno, until he feels buried underneath everything that Geno is. "I missed you," Sidney says again, and the words feel raw, like they should tear up his throat on the way out.

"Me too," Geno says, and it's so quiet Sidney can barely hear it, but no less honest for that. Sidney squeezes Geno a little tighter at that before letting go, picking up the lube and marshalling his thoughts again as he re-slicks his hand.

As he teases his fingertips against the rim of Geno's hole, Sidney says, "You always say I work so hard, but you work just as hard. I see you, putting in the time, skating extra, watching more tape, and you do it for yourself but you also do it for the team." He pushes in, just to the first joint, and waits until Geno relaxes a little before continuing, "And you do it for Russia, but they don't see it. But I do, I see all the goals you score, all the plays you make." Sidney has his middle finger in to the last knuckle, probing around gently until Geno stiffens and grunts.

Sidney presses his advantage--literally--until Geno is shifting restlessly, trying to push into the stimulation but also shy away from the intensity. Sidney backs off Geno's prostate and starts working in another finger. "You say ten points like they aren't important because I got eleven. But you got ten with less power behind you and with an injury, Geno. You did amazing, you were why Russia stayed in the tourney." The words are coming fast and smooth, now that he is talking to the relatively unjudgemental sight of Geno's back and the delicate freckles sprinkled there. "When you stayed on the ice, when almost all the others left, I thought--Russia doesn't deserve you."

"Don't deserve Russia," Geno bursts out. "Can say whatever you want, but don't _know_ , how Russia act, what coaches say. Can't tell me that Russia do, Russia don't. I _know_ I’m let Russia down, maybe it's how you feel next, I'm not know. You not know either! Can't just--tell feelings to go away, I'm still feel that way anyway."

Geno's chest is heaving, and Sidney has frozen, shocked by the sudden torrent of words. Sidney feels himself flush and bites back the instinct to yell back, or even to run away, get dressed and leave in his embarrassment. He takes a couple deep breaths, pumps his fingers in and out of Geno until he feels a little calmer.

"Okay," Sidney finally says, after his embarrassment abates. "Okay." He can work with this. He can totally work with this. Geno is about as prepped as he ever gets, so Sidney slicks up his dick and lines it up against Geno's hole. Geno likes the pressure, the anticipation, so Sidney twists his hips forward until the head of his cock is tight against Geno's hole. Geno takes a deep, gasping breath, too tense, and Sidney wraps an arm around Geno's chest. Sidney murmurs, "I'm here, I'm here," and Geno gasps in another breath and relaxes. Sidney pushes, almost indiscernible hitches of his hips, until the pressure is nearly too much and he sinks in, pushing steadily until he can’t go further.

It's not deep enough, so Sidney slides his hand down Geno's leg, tugs until Geno folds his leg up against his chest. Sidney shifts, and he slides in deeper, Geno biting out a moan. He starts up a rhythm, long and slow and deep, before he works up to saying, "I want--it's so good to have you close again. I hate when you have to go away because I'm so much better with you around."

Geno gasps, "Sid, I, _Sid_ ," and Sidney fumbles around until he finds Geno's hand so he can lay his palm against the back of Geno's hand and twine their fingers together. Geno grips almost too tight, and says, "Really?"

Sidney laughs, thin and disbelieving. "God, Geno, of course. I never thought i’d find someone who--understood me like you do. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if you hadn’t run from the Superleague, but really I can’t imagine my life without you." The last few words Sid pants out raggedly between strokes, and he's so busy catching his breath he almost doesn't notice--

"Geno," Sidney says, alarmed, and Geno shakes his head and chokes out, "It's okay," even as Sidney can see the track of tears down his cheeks. "I'm--it's--keep go, I'm good," and Sidney fucks all the way in, stretches up until he can just barely drop a kiss to the side of Geno's jaw.

"I love you," Sidney says, and it hurts it's so true. Geno squeezes his eyes closed tighter, and he lets out a true sob, one that shakes up from the bottom of his lungs. "I can't believe I get to have you."  Sidney starts up his rhythm again, clumsily wraps his hand around Geno's dick and cobbles together some coordination. "I don't want to think about what my life would be without you, up until now but also--after. I don't want to plan for a life after hockey if you aren't there still." Geno arches and comes, and Sidney chases his own release, murmuring sticky "I love you"s and "Stay with me"s into Geno's skin.

They wrap themselves around each other after, Sidney brushing the wetness off Geno's face gently with his thumbs before tucking Geno into his shoulder.

Geno breaks the silence. "You say, towers married?" His voice is small and low, and it takes Sidney a long few seconds to understand what Geno's asking.

"Um, yeah," Sidney says, and Geno smiles, small as a secret. "That's good," he murmurs, and Sidney’s heart lurches in his chest for a dangerous moment. "Married, together forever."

"Yeah," Sidney says, and it feels a lot bigger than an urban legend, a lot bigger and a lot better.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> As the story was told to me, the towers of the Tyn Church are not a generic married couple but rather specifically named Adam and Eve. I wasn’t in the mood for a negotiation of gender roles, so I vagued it up a little. That whole story is probably all lies anyway.
> 
> Come say hello on [tumblr](http://itsacoup.tumblr.com)!


End file.
